The Irregulars Of Baker Street II
by MoonlitPuddle
Summary: Seeing is Believing. A dead man is found in his room with burst out eyes, but no other signs of violence. How did he die?
1. Seeing is Believing

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I own nix, apart from Kit, Rat, Li and all the others._

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_**Chapter One: Seeing Is Believing.**_

"Wiggins! What are you doing?"

"What? I ain't doing nothin'!"

"Yes, you are! Wait! - no don't!"

I snatched at the paper that Wiggins was screwing up into a ball. Wiggins held it out of reach, and I leapt up, grabbing at his wrist. He hooked my legs out from under me, and I landed in a puddle. Scowling, I pulled at Wiggins' ankle and he came down with me. After a scramble, I ended up underneath him with a mouthful of mud. Wiggins put his knees on my arms, and rubbing his head where I'd hit it, demanded, "What was that all about, Kit?"

I squirmed, spitting, and panted, "You were using a copy of _The Strand Magazine_! To wrap your lunch in!"

"Oh, was that all? 'ere you go, then." He got up, and hauled me up after him.

I folded up the paper, and said primly, "Thank you, Wiggins."

"Hah!" Rat exclaimed. He was scrabbling in a pile of rubbish, and he brought out a dirty little bundle from behind a rotting bag of fishheads. This he unwrapped to reveal his lunch which he had hidden there for safekeeping. An apple and a manky bit of stale bread all wrapped up in an extremely dirty hankerchief that had started its existance as being blue with white stitching. I knew, because I had seen it when Rat had first lifted it from its previous owner's pocket. It had quickly taken on a new colour fitting with its new surroundings.

"You got your lunches, as well?" asked Rat, as we three went out of the little side alley onto the main street. Hansom cabs rattled over the dirty cobbles, the street vendors shouted out the virtues and prices of their various wares, and the air was thick with the smells of mingled rubbish and smoke and odd, half-smells of lots of different things put together. We made our way across the street, jumping over pot-holes and ducking under horses' necks, and reached our destination - a pile of old bales of moldy straw that had been placed on a street corner weeks ago and then forgotten about. We sat down on it, and Wiggins pulled out his lunch and mine from his pocket. It was similar to Rat's. and we ate silently, making each mouthful last for as long as possible.

Wiggins swallowed, and reflected, "I haint seen many of the others for a whiles, now. Last time I saw Tobey was a week or so ago."

"I saw Li the day before yesterday," I said.

"We're goin' diff'runt ways." Rat said. "Ollie ain't showed up as much as 'e used to."

"Well, that's not a great af-af-affliction." I managed the last word with difficulty. I shoved my last bite of bread into my mouth, and squinted up at the sky. It was noon, and after the first rush of early morning, there were few oppotunities for earning anything until the evening. Then, when people were returning home, or going out for dinner, they might be feeling generous, and let you carry their bags, or fetch and carry, or hold a horse's head. I normally waited outside the Northumberland Hotel; many of the regular customers knew me there, and familiarity bred heavy tips.

I brought the copy of _The Strand_ out of my pocket, and opened it, flicking through the contents until I found the page I wanted.

"Anythin' there?" Rat asked.

I nodded absently, and replied, "It's one I've read already."

"Then I might as well ha' used it!" Wiggins exclaimed hotly.

"No, its a good one..._The Norwood Builder_. Very subtle case."

"You're cracked about them stories." Wiggins said. "You've gotta read every single one, and then read it over and over and over..."

"They're interesting! Now shush, I'm reading."

Wiggins returned to his apple. Rat offered me his, and I took a bite, handed it back, saying gratefully, "Ta, Rat." and began reading.

I lost all sense of time whenever I read. I was so immersed in the story that showed Mr Holmes' brilliance and insight so clearly, that I did not notice when someone said, "Boys!"

Wiggins poked me, and I growled irritably, "Stuff it!" Then I looked up, and saw who had spoken. He was a small, brown-bearded man with spectacles and a very distressed expression. He wrung his hands together, then jammed them in his pockets then again fluttered them about in the air. His yellow waistcoat could be seen, buttoned up the wrong way, underneath his coat which was not done up at all.

"Boys!" This man squeaked again. "Can you tell me how to get to Baker Street? I need to get to Baker Street _now_! Do you know how to get there? I'll give you a penny apiece if you can show me - "

"Alright guv'nor." Wiggins said with calm authority. "We knows it."

"Oh good! Come on, come on, I need to get there _now_!"

Palpitating and anxious, he followed us as we lead the way to Baker Street. I had a good idea why he wanted to go there, and when he had paid us off, instead of going back with Rat and Wiggins, I waited on the other side of the street and watched the man go up the steps of 221B and knock at the door.

"What're you doin', Kit?" Wiggins demanded. "Spyin' on 'im?"

"I want to see why he wants Mr Holmes."

"Oh. Well, do you want me to hang around with you?"

"I don't mind." I said, knowing perfectly well that he would stay with me; and that Rat would stay without question.

We settled down, and waited. After an interval, during which even I had begun to fidget, the door across the street opened, and three men came out. The nervous man whom we had had brought here; Mr Sherlock Holmes, tall, angular and intent; and Dr Watson, respectable and moustached. As they came out, Mr Holmes looked across the road and saw us. I think he smiled, but then he turned and went with the first man who was almost hopping in his agitation.

We followed them at a discreet distance into a fairly respectable part of London some distance from Pall Mall. Then they stopped at a fresh-painted house with three floors and a red-tiled roof. The first man fumbled in his pocket for a key, and I took the oppotunity to dash over the road and up to the house, Rat and Wiggins in tow.

"Hello, Kit." Mr Holmes greeted me, and Watson echoed him in suprise.

"Hello, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson." I returned. "Do you mind if I see what you're doing?"

"It might not be very suitable," Watson said doubtfully.

Holmes said, "If we don't let her, she'll find a different way to find out."

I grinned, and as the man - Mr Richard Somerset, Dr Watson whispered to me - opened the door, I, Rat and Wiggins followed them inside the house. Mr Somerset led the way up onto the third floor; there was one room at the top, and he stopped in front of the door. His features twitched, as though he were steeling himself to do something dreadful, then he opened the door.

The room inside was large, and set up simply, with a bed in one corner and a table, bookcase, wash stand and chest of drawers making up the rest of the furniture. In the very center of the room was a large chair, and in this chair was a man, who could be nothing but dead. Holmes at once advanced forward and gazed intently at the dead man's face, Watson a few paces behind, while Mr Somerset hovered in the doorway, gibbering, "He's been my lodger for a month or so, and- and this morning my housekeeper came to bring him his cup of tea that he always, _always_ had at seven o'clock, and she found him like this, sitting in his chair and oh, she nearly had a fit when she saw his face!"

I could well understand the housekeeper's reaction. The man's face was contorted and twisted in a horrible grimace that was frightening enough, but the main thing was his eyes. They seemed to have burst, and the skin surrounding his eyes was red and inflamed, like raw meat. The horrible, staring eye sockets with the remains of the man's eyes sitting inside, like eggs in a nest was too much for me, and I had to turn away, feeling my stomach contort. I had to swallow hard to keep from being sick, and Rat was staring at the man's face, gulping in horror. Wiggins whispered unsteadily, "'is-'is eyes have..._gone_."

Mr Holmes was examining the body dispassionately. Dr Watson asked him, "What do you think, Holmes?"

He shook his head, thinking. Then he said, "There are no marks of violence on this man; apart from his eyes, he seems to be unharmed."

"You think, then, that he died because of whatever happened to his eyes? Out of pure pain?"

"I do think anything at present. Mr Somerset, your lodger - what was his name, by the way?"

"James Stone."

"When was the last time you saw Mr Stone alive?"

"Well, I think it must have been on Tuesday. No, I'm lying...today is a Wednesday, isn't it? It was Monday. Yes, I remember it was Monday because he asked me what I was planning to do in the week."

"Good. Now, if you could run down to the police-station, and fetch up a constable and persons to remove the body, it would be very helpful."

Mr Somerset nodded, and with a last wide-eyed glance at the body, scurried out of the door and down the stairs. Mr Holmes then began to look over the room, trotting about and examining the walls, muttering to himself and keeping up a commentary of his observations as much directed to himself as to any of us. At one point he pounced into a corner of the room, and picked up a pair of objects lying on the floor there. He held them out to Watson, who took them, and I peered over his arm. They were a pair of sandals, made of some leather-like material. Holmes scraped his fingernail over the soles, looked at his finger, then resumed his minute examination of the room. He looked at the books on the bookcase, and pulling one out, remarked, "Mr Stone seems to have been a very moral, upright man. Look at his collection, Watson."

Watson read out the title of the book Holmes held. "_Body of Divinity._"

"And these," said Holmes, running his hand over the other volumes on the shelf. "Works by Spurgeon, Boston, and a very well thumbed copy of _The Westminster Confession_."

He dropped his hand and stood in thought for a moment. Then, as the front door slammed below us, he jerked back into life, and listened as footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door opened, and a dark, stocky man stepped into the room, the twitchy Mr Somerset behind him.

"Mr Thomas Myers, I believe." Holmes said, smiling slightly at the newcomer.

"Mr Holmes!" he replied in suprise; then he blinked as he saw the body. "Oh dear, that _is_ unpleasant."

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	2. Peppermints and the Past

_**Disclaimer:**_ _None of the famous characters seen here are mine; I just enjoy their company._

**Thank you everyone who reviewed!**

_**Chapter Two: Peppermints and the Past**_

Myers eyed the body of Mr Stone with evident distaste. "Disgusting. Most unpleasant. Very much so." He circled the corpse, his head on one side, his black eyes darting here and there, taking in every detail. Then he shot a volley of penetrating glances around the room before he asked, "Have you found anything, Mr Holmes?"

"Only these," Holmes held out the sandals, and Myers pounced on them, turning them over interestedly between his fingers; finally he dropped them down on the floor and began to look over the room much as Mr Holmes had done_. Here's one who has taken note of Mr Holmes' methods_, I thought, watching him. Myers put me in mind of an excited bird as he fluttered from one corner of the room to the other, his head permanently on one side, and keeping up a stream of jerky, short comments to anyone who would listen. "Hum, the window? No. Not been forced. The door? Most likely. But how was the murder done? _Violent_ murder. Eyes burst. Otherwise unharmed. Contorted features. Poison? No, poison would not cause those eyes...what do make of this, Mr Holmes?" He turned suddenly to Holmes, who had picked up the sandals and was looking at them thoughtfully.

Holmes placed the sandals on the top of the bookcase, and replied airily, "Oh, I have no theories yet. What do you make of it?"

"Nothing!" Myers cried, throwing up his hands in an expression of despair. "Ten minutes in this room, and already I'm baffled! Baffled, sir, baffled!"

"Is it just me, or is 'e baffled?" Rat whispered in my ear. I snuffed a laugh, and felt a bit better.

Watson said, "If we could find out what caused the frightful condition of this poor fellow's eyes, we might go a long way to solving the whole thing."

"Indeed. Myers, can you remove the body? I think Watson and I will be of greater use elsewhere."

"Oh, yes. Remove the body. Yes. Of course." Myers almost skipped to the doorway and fluted down the stairs: "Burrows! Bring them up."

He rubbed his hands together like a fly, and as we all went out the door and onto the stairs, he called, "I shall keep you informed if we find anything, Mr Holmes."

"Thank you, Myers," Holmes replied. We went out onto the street, past the policemen posted outside the door. I took in a deep breath of the cool air, ridding my lungs of the staleness inside the murdered man's rooms. This was the first time I had seen a murdered human before, and was disturbed to find I was more affected by it than I thought I would be. Wiggins was still pale, but Rat seemed merely thoughtful.

Mr Holmes waved a cab over, and said, "I suppose you want to come with us, Kit? What about you two?"

"We want t'come as well, Mr Holmes. If that's alight."

He smiled, but merely said, "It will be a tight fit, but we shall manage. I trust you have no objection, Watson?"

"Not in the least!" Watson replied heartily. We squeezed into the cab and managed to close the wooden doors. Holmes called something up to the driver through the trap-door in the roof, the cabbie flicked his horse, and with a swaying clatter we lurched off. It was the first time I had ridden inside a hansom cab, and I gazed goggle-eyed out the sides, enjoying the novelty of seeing familiar surroundings go by in unfamiliar manner. Wiggins asked, "Where we goin'?"

"To Mr Stone's church."

"Church? Were he a church-goin' sort, then?"

"Apart from his having numerous religious books in his possesion, I didn't see anything to suggest that Stone was a minister, Holmes." Watson remarked.

"In the flyleaf of _The Body of Divinity_, there was written, _To Rev. J. Stone from his congregation at Varden Street, on the twentieth anniversary of his induction_. So we are going to Varden Street." Holmes saw my questioning glance, and explained, "When a minister is inducted, he is assigned to a certain congregation to be their minister."

"Oh. I see."

The cab turned a corner and went down a small road leading to a quiet crossroads. Just past the crossroads, on the right hand street, was a row of houses, then a small church building. We piled out, and Holmes went straight to the church door, Watson pausing to instruct the cabbie to wait. The church was neatly built, with a pointed roof, and a notice with letters burnt into it on the front wall. At the top of the notice was, _White Chapel. Minister: Rev. J Stone_. Then, underneath in smaller letters: _Meetings on Sabbath morning, 11am-12.30pm; evening, 7.00pm-8.30pm. Wednesday Prayer Meeting, 6.00pm-7.00pm_. At the very bottom was_: For whosover shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. Rom. 10 v13_.

"How do you know that there will be anyone here?" asked Watson.

Holmes rapped on the door. "They clean the church before the services, and get everything prepared. It is now round about two. Allowing two hours for preparation, they must arrive here at approximately 2.30. If they are not here yet, then we must wait - ah!"

The door swung open on its hinges, and a man in rough clothes and a broom in one hand peered out. "Yeah, wha'dju want?"

"I would like to speak a deacon if he is here, or an elder of this church." Holmes replied.

"Well, Mr Green is in. I s'pose you could talk to 'im."

He opened the door wider and we went in. Past the outer door was a set of double, dark wooden doors; Mr Holmes pushed these open, and we followed him into the inside of the church. It was small, with plain whitewashed walls, a dark red carpet on the floor, and a high wooden ceiling with small panels of carving here and there. There were rows of plain wooden benches on either side with an aisle leading up to a large pulpit at the far end. There was a table in front of the pulpit, and at the table, dusting off some leather bound books was a man clad in a dark suit. There were a few other men brushing the floor, and one other man in a suit sitting in one of the pews. The first man looked up as Holmes came towards him, and shutting the book, advanced with out-stretched hand. "Good afternoon, sirs. And children." he added, smiling at Wiggins, Rat and me. He had a square, solid face and a fine head of snow-white hair. "I am Mr Edward Green," he explained, shaking hands. "I am a deacon of this church."

"Thank you, Mr Green. I am Mr Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr Watson. And these..." Holmes grinned suddenly. "These three are colleagues of mine. Wiggins, Rat and Kit."

Mr Green returned the smile and gave something to Wiggins out of his pocket. Wiggins exclaimed, "Thankee, sir!" and showed me and Rat three peppermints; we took ours, and sucked blissfully.

Serious now, Mr Holmes said, "Mr Green, I am here to ask you about the minister of this church, a Rev James Stone."

"Ask about what? James hasn't been in the West End, has he?"

"No...I am just interested in his past history. What did he do before he became this church's minister?"

I was slightly suprised that Mr Holmes asked him straight out, and not under some other pretext._ I suppose he thinks a church-man can be trusted, and there's no need for excuses._

"Oh, James did a lot of things. He travelled a lot, you know, went all over the place. He spent some years in Africa, and I think he went to South America and the Pacific as well. And another place, as well, I can never remember what it's called. John!" he called over to the other man in the pew. He raised his head, and asked, "Yes?" He was a much younger man, with black hair and a Scottish accent.

"Where's that place that Mr Stone went to after Africa?"

"Madagascar. I mind he said it was near Africa, sort of like a next door neighbour."

"There, Madagascar, you have it. I don't think there's anything he did apart from his missionary work, nothing out-standing, anyway. I'm sorry, but I think that it all I can tell you."

"It is enough," Holmes said. "Thank you, and goodbye. You have been most helpful. Come, Watson, Kit."

Outside, and piling into the cab again, Watson asked Holmes, "What is it, Holmes?"

Mr Holmes was obviously thinking hard, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a bushy line. "That country..."

"Madagascar?"

"...if it is what I think it is, then we may have a valuable clue."

The cab rattled along, and as it neared Baker Street, Holmes, whose head had drooped forward in thought, now snapped upright. "Now, you three," he directed. "I want you to look out for anyone with brown skin. Any foreigners that you can find out about. Alert the other Irregulars, and tell them it's the usual rates: a shilling a day, and a guinea to the one who finds the man I'm looking for."

"What if we find a foreign man who _isn't_ the one you're looking for?" I asked.

"Then you don't get the guinea." Holmes said simply.

"Oh."

"So make sure you find the right man."

"_Oh_."

"We're t'look fer a man wi' dark skin," Wiggins repeated. "Right, guv."

I felt a thrill of excitement, and thought, not a little dramatically, _The game's afoot!_


	3. Clues and Shoes

_**Disclaimer:**__ I should have said for the last chapter that I do not own Varden Street and the church there, or the people in the church. To add to that, I do not own Holmes, Watson, Wiggins, Simpson, or Harry._

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_**Chapter Three: Clues and Shoes. **_

The game refused to be afoot, or exciting, for several days. Mostly, we - Wiggins, Rat, me, and the others - went looking in the scummiest, dirtiest, lowest parts of London that we could find. We teemed up with Li, and together we looked in opium dens and run-down theatres; grimy public houses and crowded music halls. We peered into butcher's shops, their counters decorated from above with limp rabbit carcases hanging upside down; bakeries, steamy and warm inside with the smells of fresh bread; we even went to Covent Garden, and gazed at the faces of the people there selling fruit and flowers. Wiggins disregarded the flower-girls at first sight: "Them? 'sall they can do to worry 'bout payin' their rent, never mind a murder."

"Maybe they've got a lot of spare time," I suggested.

Li giggled, then said, "No, I think Wiggins' right. We oughta 'ave a butcher's round the grottier places."

"Have a butcher's round the butcher's." I said; and the others laughed.

- - - - -

We had our butcher's, but nothing came to light. Along with hunting for any foreigners, we all had to eat. Many was the time that I inwardly cursed my promise to stay honest, but if any of the others dared mention it, I flared up immediately, and refused to hear a word against it. It was for my own good, I insisted. Mr Holmes knew that, and that was why he had asked me to forgo a life of crime. I repeated this often, kept my nose in the air, a virtuous expression on my face, and tried to ignore my empty stomach.

Caught up in my own tumult, I did not see that Rat was getting quieter, more withdrawn into himself. He had always been quiet, confiding only in the people he really trusted, but now he did not talk at all - even to me. Afterwards, I was furious at myself: I, who tried to notice things and had begun to quite preen myself on my sharpness, completely ignored Rat's reserved behaviour until it had become almost a habit with him. I only noticed it one evening, when I met up with the others by my railings. I was in a thoroughly bad mood, having spent that whole day running errands, fetching and carrying, only to be given tuppence at the end of it all. Wiggins saw my thunderous expression, and unwisely inquired, "You all right, Kit?"

"No! I am _not_ alright! I am hungry, I am tired, I've been working all day, running here, running there, saying, 'yes sir', 'no sir' until I'm ready to scream, and what do I get for it all? Tuppence. _Tuppence!_"

"Tuppence is better than nothin'," Rat said comfortingly.

"Oh, yes, it's easy for you to say that, but then it ain - _isn't_ your legs what are about to collapse, are they?"

Rat recoiled as though I'd hit him. I sat down hard on the ground, and took off my old pair of cracked boots I had managed to scrounge from the rubbish heap outside the theatre. Massaging my aching feet, I glowered at a growing blister, already feeling ashamed of my outburst. I knew that Rat was only trying to help, and I had just made everything worse.

Tentatively, Li said, "'ave you found anythin', Kit?"

"No," I sighed. I wanted to find something badly, something that would get me the promised guinea, and also something that would . . . that would what? _That would get you admiration_, I answered myself scornfully. _You want Mr Holmes to pat you on the back, and say "Well done, Kit!" Get over it_. Waiting, hoping for praise, showing my . . . _dependance_ on something. _You are independant! You live by your wits, and get money by any way - any honest way - you can_. And yet, it was more than that. _Hero-worship. There's nothing wrong with that!_ I argued. And yet, I could not help feeling that I had lost something, or perhaps that I had not yet got it. I felt all mixed up inside, and I let it out in another sigh.

"Kit?"

"Mmm?"

"'dju want a bit?" Wiggins offered me a chunk of something grey and speckled with black from his pocket. Too hungry to care, I accepted it with a brief, "Ta, Wiggins," and shoved it in my mouth, barely tasting it before it sank down into my stomach and tamed my raging hunger. I didn't think to ask what it was, which was probally just as well.

After that, I felt a bit better, and tugging at Rat's sleeve, I hissed quietly, "Hey,"

When he looked at me, I mouthed, _Sorry_ at him, and he smiled his slow smile, nodding slightly. Then he moved his arm out of my reach. Something about his action made me curious, and I reached for his sleeve again. He tucked his good arm behind his bad one, and stared at me flatly.

"Rat? Can I see your arm?"

"No,"

"But - "

"_No_."

I frowned, got up and grabbing his shoulders, pulled his sleeve up in spite of his efforts to stop me. There was a string of livid bruises reaching up his arm, and an oozing cut with jagged edges in the crook of his elbow. I was no stranger to violence, and should have thought it odd indeed if Rat had not had _some_ bruises, but these were not normal, and that cut had been done by a knife.

Rat yanked his arm away. "Leggo,"

"Rat, how did that happen?"

"I fell,"

"On your bike, Rat! Which, as you don't have one, is quite impossible. _Who did that to you?_"

"Did wot?" Wiggins and Li had suddenly awoken to our conversation. For answer, I pointed to Rat, whose breathing had quickened, his eyes darting from my face to the ground and back again.

"Rat's been beaten up," I stated flatly.

Wiggins' head jerked up, and he stared at Rat in amazement, demading finally, "Why didn't you tell us? Tell me?"

"Because there's nothin' to tell! I tripped and cut myself,"

"You're barmy to think we're believin' you, Rat." Li said, his squint becoming more pronounced in his distress. "Bet it was the lot in Pall Mall. Or Jem's boys."

"No it weren't Jem, it were - " he bit off the rest of the sentance. I pounced on the trailing end:

"Yes? It were who?"

"No one. Don' ask me, they said, they said that if I told . . ."

"It were Todd's!" Li burst out. "That's what Todd's gang always says. It were Todd's!"

"'ow true," said a voice behind us. I had forgotten that my railings were in a cut-off space, and that nearby was an alley, full of rubbish that was starting to smell. I had forgotten that when one warns someone not to tell what happened to them, one generally places a watchdog to make sure the victim does _not_ peach.

All these things flashed through my mind as I turned to face the boy who had spoken. He, and two others behind him were all grinning. "Little Rattie was gonna squeal, then, were 'e?" the first boy leered.

When in situations like this, it is handy to have been in a similar tight spot some time before. I was aware of the first blow being launched, and ducked to avoid it. Quickly sidestepping, I punched the first boy hard in his gut; he doubled over, then someone knocked me from behind, and I rolled on the hard ground, struggling to keep another boy at arm's length. His fist smashed into my shoulder, and mentally, and quite cooly, I thought, _Ah, so they don't touch the face. That keeps it secret. . ._ I had no such qualms, and hit him under his chin, and felt his grip weaken. I shuffled, got my legs up and kicked him in the chest so he went flying over my head. I heard the soft thump as he landed, heard Rat's shrill scream: "Kit! Watch it! 'e's gotta _knife_!"

The situation abruptly shifted from being something close to welcome exercise to something a lot more worrying. The other boy was squirming underneath Wiggins and Li, but the first boy that I had hit was feeling in his pocket, his breath wheezing in and out in an airy whistle. Rat jumped on him, pulling him down, and as he threw Rat off easily, I got hold of his ears and banged his head a few times on the cobbles.

Dimly, I heard someone shouting, "Oi, you boys, get out of it! Break it up!" and I was yanked off him by a man in - I blinked, and scrambled to my feet - by a man in a blue uniform, which immediately set every little alarm bell in my mind ringing a warning, _Copper! Run!_ It didn't matter if I _was_ honest, a copper was a copper, and whenever there was a copper around, you beat it in a hurry. I grabbed Rat's collar, yelled, "Wiggins!" - and aside - "Sorry, guv, but they started it!" and ran pell-mell for the safety of the alley way, with the other boys following, rivalry forgotten in the common fear of every street arab.

Once out of view of the copper, I swung round and pushed the other boy against the wall of the alley. It was the one Wiggins and Li had been sitting on. He had a swelling black eye, and a bleeding nose. The leader - and his knife - had vanished down the street, leaving the winded one to the mercy of the police. Wiggins, rubbing his bruised forehead with the back of one hand, glared at the other boy. "Nah, y'see what 'appens when you get mixed up wi' Todd an' 'is lot? You ain't gonna be beatin' Rat up again with 'em are you?"

The other boy wriggled as I pushed his head back against the wall. I could feel a headache coming on from where my head had connected with the ground, I had scraped the skin off the back of my knuckles, and now they were starting to sting. Plus, I had left my boots behind.

"No!" The boy squeaked, feeling my baleful stare at him. "No, I won't!"

"Good," I growled. "Now, you . . . " I was suddenly struck by a thought, and I asked him, "You haven't seen any foreigners round about, have you? Brown skinned people?"

He gawked at the change in subject, and stammered, "N-no, I don't think . . ."

"Better start thinkin'," Wiggins warned ominously.

"H'i yam! Um, th-there's a, um . . . a chink in . . . "

"Brown! Not yeller!"

"And a b-brown-skinned man in Leicester Square!" With a sudden movement, the boy eeled out of my grasp, and darted down the alley to the safety of the street. I let him go, and went back myself to the railings and picked up my boots. Slinging them around my kneck by the laces, I went back to the others. We had not suffered badly in the fight, and I said to Rat, "How's your arm? Did they do anything else to you?"

Rat shook his head. "Nah, they didn't do much anyway."

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, I asked, "How long did they do it for?"

"Oh, not long. Few weeks. We goin' to tell Mister 'olmes about this brown bloke?"

"'Course we are. C'mon, you lot."

- - - - -

"Brown-skinned man in Leicester Square," Mr Holmes repeated thoughtfully. We three sat on the couch as he sat at the table in front of us. He pressed his index finger against his lips in concentration, then said abruptly, "Well, we must go to Leicester Square. Watson, your hat. I am afraid, Kit, that you cannot come with us."

"What? But I want to! I want to find out if he's the right man!"

"If he is who we are looking for, then the situation may turn out to be violent. Haven't you had enough contention for one day? The state of your clothes tells me that much. And your presence may be more of a hindrance than a help. He will not be prone to a confession if he sees a crowd of street children at my coat-tails."

I lifted my chin obstinately; and Mr Holmes shook his head, but smiling slightly, reminiscently. The next minute he was serious and on his feet. "Seeing dead corpses is one thing. Being present at a possibly violent confrontation is another. I am sorry, Kit, but this time I insist."

"You don't know that I can't help. I won't be an imped-impedi-impedimantle."

"Impediment."

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Not exactly," Watson's dark moustache twitched. He and we followed Holmes out the door, down the flight of seventeen stairs, and out into the street, where Mr Holmes waved for a cab. As one pulled up, he said apologetically, "I'll tell you what happens when we get back. And don't even think of following us."

I sighed, abandoning the idea which had begun to blossom in the last few minutes. "Oh, alright. I suppose."

"Good boy- girl." Holmes grinned at me as he got into the hansom, and Watson climbed in after him. The cabbie flicked his horse, told it to: "Get 'long, you ol' bag o' bones," and it obeyed, rattling away over the streets.

- - - - -

I tried not to mind being left behind, but waited impatiently at the corner of Baker Street, keeping a lookout for their return. They did not come back for some time, however, and my stomach started growling long before that. Eventually, as the sun set, I deserted my post, and retired to my railings. The nights were getting warmer now, and the Winter season was on the way out. I curled up on my side, and gazed up at the stars, sharp, piercing pin-pricks of light in the dark, velvet blue of the night sky. Dreamily, I started counting, and before long, I fell asleep.

The next morning, my first thought was of the brown-skinned man in Leicester Square. Apart from the prospect of getting the promised guinea, I wanted to know what he had said. I met up with Wiggins, Rat and Li that morning, as we had got into the habit of doing these last few days. As we hung around the hotels and shops, hoping for a chance to earn something, we ran into Simpson and Harry - two more of the Irregulars who had done work for Mr Holmes before. Together, we attracted the attention of a group of gentlemen and ladies emerging from a hotel doorway, and we were kept busy for the next few minutes, fetching and carrying their various boxes and bundles of luggage into a waiting cab. By the time the morning rush was over, I felt that it was late enough to call on Mr Holmes without interupting anything important. Wiggins and Li were keen to hang around for a bit longer, so only Rat came with me to Baker Street. I knocked on the door of 221B, and was ushered upstairs by Mrs Hudson, who had become familiar now with the Irregulars barging in at all hours and in all fashions, and only raised a token resistance.

Dr Watson was busy writing in a brown covered notebook as we came in, and Mr Holmes was not in the sitting room, but in the room next, fiddling with some glass tubes and looking through a thick encyclopedia with gilt edges. Watson greeted us cheerfully. "Good morning, you two."

"Good morning, Dr Watson, Mr Holmes. Was he the right man? What did he say?"

"He said a lot, which was not a little helpful. However," Mr Holmes called from the other room. "he - Mr Daniel Lane - is a perfectly innocent African, with past experience as a cow-herder, and who has now taken to writing. He was _not_ the right man."

"He wasn't?" I echoed in dismay.

"No. He had a perfect alibi which was corroborated by several reliable witnesses. He could not have gone to Mr Somerset's house and murdered his lodger. But, he told us some very interesting facts. The sandals which I found in Stone's room are made of cow hide. He identified them as the sort worn by Chigogo tribes in Tanganyika, in Africa."

"Then," I said, trying to think through this. "Mr Stone was murdered by an African tribesman?"

"If you'll let me finish, Kit," Holmes said tartly. "Mr Lane said that sandals such as these have more than one use. Aside from wearing them, the witchdoctor of the tribe uses them to foretell a person's future. They throw the sandals into the air, and interpret the future from the way they land."

I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. "Fortune-telling? Who would be telling the future in a man's room before they murdered him?"

Holmes chuckled, and although I could not see him, I knew that he was enjoying the puzzle with every fibre of his being. "That, Kit, is the problem that presents itself for examination, diagnosis, and cure."

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the delay in this chapter, I've been rather busy revising. Anyway, hope you like this. Not many people reviewed for the last chapter - please review for this one, even to tell me you hated it._


	4. Two Types of Poison

**_Disclaimer:_** _I own nix._

**Thank you to all who reviewed! (hints here! hint, hint!) I know it's been years since I updated but I plead busy, here.**

* * *

_**Chapter Four: Two Types of Poison.**_

After that broken thread, I simply could not think what could happen next. Carry on looking for another brown-skinned bloke, I supposed. It was so frustrating, coming this close, following that lead, only to find out that it wasn't the right one. And instead of helping, it had deepened the mystery. What kind of murderer told a person's fortune before they killed them?

"Maybe it's a madman," Li suggested.

"Even if it's a madman, we still need to find him," I said.

"But you can't find a madman out of Bedlam," objected Wiggins.

"There's one right here," I said, giving him a shove. Wiggins gave a show of sulking, but after a moment brightened up again. I was less ready to give up my black mood. I simply could not think what could happen next, or how Mr Holmes could possibly find out the truth. I kept out half an ear for any foreigners, but London was simply too big to search through every citizen.

That day was sunny, one of the few that was becoming more frequent as the season wore on. The weather was a small consolation for my empty stomach. I simply could not find enough to eat, or enough to earn. It had never been a problem before. You're hungry, you go and find a pocket that needs picking. You stand outside a greengrocer's shop and look innocent and be busy. Now it was getting serious. "Serious - very," as Mr Jingle would have said.

- - - -

Wiggins found me one day in the alley near my railings. "Kit!" he gasped, out of breath from running. "Mister 'olmes wants us agin!"

"Um?" I said, not looking up. I was busy searching in the piles and stacks of rubbish stacked up against the dirty brick walls.

Wiggins wrinkled his nose. "Cor, Kit, it don't 'alf pong in 'ere. Whatcha lookin' for?"

"Dunno, yet."

"Well, come on! I'd 'a' thought you'd be all wanting to go."

"In a minute," I replied. I could smell something strong, something that was old, but hopefully eatable. _Let it be eatable, oh please, please, let it be eatable . . . _"Ha!" I threw aside half a dead cat, and found a bag full of old fish heads. I tore the bag open, brushed the brownish muck off of one and rammed in it my mouth, spitting out the bones with no thought for decorum.

"You that 'ungry?" Wiggins asked, only slightly disgusted.

"Yep," I replied, with my mouth full. The old, stinking fish sank down to my stomach, tamed the hunger raging there like a minuture whirlwind. I shoved the rest of the fish heads in my mouth, too hungry to care whether they were dirty or not. Wiggins sighed impatiently, but waited until I had finished. Then I ran with him to Baker Street, picking up Rat and Li, and the others on the way there.

Inside the upstairs rooms, Mr Holmes was in his chair, smoking, and Dr Watson was writing in his notebook again. As soon as we came in, Mr Holmes began talking. "I need you to look in all the places you can think of where a man could find poison. Buy it, get it illegally, steal it. I have no doubt that you know where there is such a place better than I do, so you won't need specific instructions. Simpson, I wouldn't hide a stolen wallet in your trouser pocket - it bulges out too much."

Simpson blinked, and hastily transferred the wallet from trouser pocket to the inside pocket of his ragged jacket.

"You are looking for fatal poisons; poisons that could kill a strong man in less than a couple of hours. Ask if anyone has brought such a poison recently. Get the details without being too conspicuous - another thing you all are good at."

It was at this point that I started feeling sick. My stomach churned, and the fish heads felt like they were dancing a jig in my guts. I swallowed hard. _Don't be sick, don't be sick, don't be sick here, wait till we're outside, don't throw up on Mr Holmes' carpet . . ._

" . . . the normal rates, and Wiggins or - Kit, are you alright?" Mr Holmes broke off abruptly, and I was aware of all eyes being turned in my direction.

"Mm," I got out through clenched teeth. I took a breath and added, "Yes, Mr Holmes. Fine."

"I sincerely doubt that," Holmes returned bluntly.

I shot a desperate glance at Wiggins, and he piped up: "That all, guv?"

"Yes. That's all." Mr Holmes eyes were very shrewd, glinting sharply as a knife blade as he looked at me. I stared hard back at him, expressionless. Only when we were out in the street did I give in; and I vomited up the fish heads in the gutter. Rat, Wiggins and Li waited until I had finished heaving; then they firmly marched me out of Baker Street, and back to my railings. Realizing my need for privacy, they did not hang around for long; Wiggins simply said, "It were them fish 'eads."

I glared at him, sweating and queasy. "Oh, really? Sure it wasn't the madeira and caviare I had last night?"

"Quite sure," Wiggins said seriously.

I sighed. "Sorry."

"Don' mention it."

"Where's a good place to get fatal poisons?" I diverted the conversation into the places where I wanted it to go.

"Wot's fatal?" Li asked.

"Deadly!" I exclaimed. "Poisons that would kill you in so and so many minutes flat."

"Oh."

- - - -

The next day I felt better, but just as empty as before. I went slowly and carefully down into the scummiest parts of the city, looking in all the dirty and strange-smelling shops tucked into poky corners; shops with bundles of dried herbs hanging above the counter, and jars of strange concoctions on the shelves, labelled in spidery handwriting that I could not read. These shops generally had more people than just the owner in, and a few delicate enquiries would bring forth a wealth of information about every kind of poison discovered or invented by mankind. Our findings were forwarded to Mr Holmes, but he did not seem to find what he was looking for, as we were told to keep looking. The money from this work saved me from near starvation. I had almost got to the dizzy-spell stage of extreme hunger; I spent half the coins on food, and hoarded the rest like a mad squirrel.

On the second day of my search, I found a shop that was joined at the back to a pub of the particually grimy sort that was popular with miners and factory workers. I went in through the shop door and looked around. The walls were lined with shelves which were in turn filled with all kinds of pots and containers, each one carefully marked with its contents' name in English and Latin. There were four high stools in front of the counter, and on these were miners chatting with each other while the shop owner, a big man with a neat beard and primly white hands, flicked a dirty rag about in imitation of cleaning and contributed to the conversation.

As though drawn like a magnet, I went and looked up at the shelves with their mysterious contents. A spider scuttled behind a jar sealed with dark red wax that was cracked with age and liberally coated with dust. Business was not booming, then.

"You need anything?" The shop owner looked up, his duster performing gymnastics vaguely in the air.

"Yeah, wanted t' know if you 'ad anythin' poisonous," I said, deliberately dropping my aitches. A ragamuffin boy who didn't drop them conspicously and with a very loud bang tended to draw unwelcome attention. "Where'd I get summut what would kill a cat slowly?" Seeing his raised eyebrows, I added, "It's for this bloke 'oo's in a music 'all, and 'e does this act where 'e does a Stare Of Death."

"An' what's that when it's at home?" The man sounded interested, and the other miners raised their heads, ready for this new topic of conversation. Only one, a tall, youngish man in smutty clothes and a red neckcloth remained hunched over, a clay pipe clenched between his teeth.

"Oh, 'e stares at this cat an' sez 'ow 'e's goin' to kill it with 'is stare. He says a lot of foreign soundin' mumbo-jumbo, and waves 'is 'ands about an' the cat keels over. 'Course, the cat's bin poisoned before'and, so it looks like 'e's killed it just by starin' at it. 'snot very popular, but 'e does it for 'is friends, an' 'e's run outa the stuff 'e uses, so 'ave you got anythin'?"

"Well, I dunno. Maybe . . . " The shop owner ran an eye over the shelves. "There's the foxgloves drink, an' the poppy, an' the opium, but that ain't really poison. Did this man say what he used afore?"

I shrugged. "Might 'ave. I forget. Funny long name, in a weird language. Can't tell what it means."

"I didn't expect you to," the man said condescendingly, and all the miners laughed, except for the silent man at the end. As the shop owner pottered about, searching among his shelves for this drug or that sedative, I watched that silent man out of the corner of my eye. The other miners resumed their talk, but he stayed dourly quiet, listening to them. He felt my gaze on him, and, not moving his head, lifted his eyes to meet mine. All the dirt in the world could not hide their brilliant grey sharpness, and I blinked in amazement, in that split second seeing through the layers of soot to the man beneath. Mr Holmes' eyes were bright with amusement as he gave me a ghost of a wink. The next minute, he blew out a cloud of black and smelly tobacco smoke and turned back to the miners.

"Don't think we have much here, boy," said the man coming back from his happy journey through his shelves. "Nothing that would work in the way you wants it to."

Normally, in cases like this, I asked several innocemt questions about the other poisons in the shop, but Mr Holmes was here, and I felt that this might be a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. I shook my head. "Nah, don't matter. I'll look someplace else."

As I went to the door, Mr Holmes unfolded himself from his perch and said languidly, "There's a shop not that far from 'ere that might 'ave summut. I'll show you."

So saying, he led the way out into the street, and I followed him. We left the shop behind, and I drew level with him, skipping to keep up with his long strides. He said, "Good cover story, Kit. Although whether it would bear up under close questioning, I am not sure. Have you been eating better these days?"

I felt myself flush hotly. "You know about that?"

"Kit, it was so obvious that Watson commented on it. And rebuked me for it. The honest Watson reproving me for removing a potential criminal from society!" He laughed quietly. "Human beings are what make this world so strange and magnificent. Kit. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Shakespeare. Have you read any of his works? Now, there was a genius."

"I tried _Twelfth Night_, once," I said. "It was too flowery, and I couldn't understand half of what the people were saying."

"'If music be the food of love, play on,'" Mr Holmes quoted dramatically. "Possibly my favourite of Shakespeare's plays."

"I think I like Dickens better," I replied politely.

"You should try it again when you are a bit older," Mr Holmes advised. "Then you might find it easier."

"I'll remember," I said. After a pause, I asked, "Did you find anything in there?"

"Many things.Things that would make Scotland Yard gasp in horror and shriek aloud to the heavens. They always neglect the little details which are so important." He sighed. "'Something rotten in the state of Denmark.'"

"But have you found anything about the murder? Why do you want to find out about poisons, anyway?"

"Questions, questions!" Mr Holmes exclaimed impatiently. "The denouement is near, the drama and tension increase!" Then he smiled. "I'm sorry, Kit. Come to Baker Street tomorrow. Then you'll see the ending of this case."

"You've solved it?" I cried.

"I have a good idea of what we shall find tomorrow. Now run along - I have business in other parts of the city where you would not be welcome."

I happily ran off down the street, feeling like a statue I had once seen of a Greek god of some sort with wings on his feet. _Mr Holmes has solved it!_

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_A/N: Please leave a review, even if it's a scorching flaming one. Press the pretty purple button in the corner. Next and last chapter hopefully coming soon! _


	5. Lifting the Curtain

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I own nix commendable._

**Thank you very much to MeGoobie for all your help! And to Susicar, VHunter07 and Werewolf Master for reviewing. Thank y'all!**

_**Chapter Five: Lifting The Curtain.  
**_  
The sunny weather broke the next day; clouds hung in the sky like dirty, grey hankerchiefs filled with tears of rain. Rat and Wiggins were busy hanging around shop doors, trying to earn a penny or two, so I ran alone to Baker Street. I had timed my arrival well; Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were just setting out in a cab. I squeezed in with them.

"You've solved it?" I demanded. "How?"

Watson crossed his arms and sat back with the expression of one who had asked the very same question. Mr. Holmes leaned forward, and resting his elbows on his knees, said, "'Solved' is too strong a word. I know how Mr. Stone was murdered, but not why. Hopefully, the people we are going to see will clear this matter up. The most important thing in a case like this is to be able to reason backwards and to use the process of elimination. I kept my mind clear of any theories before I collected all data possible and so was not led astray by any false scents, as the police are all too fond of doing."

"Yes, but how did you solve it and where are we going now?" I impatiently interrupted.

Mr. Holmes lifted his eyebrows and Dr. Watson raised his hand to cover a grin. I belatedly realized how I had sounded and began to say, "Sorry, sir, I didn't..."

"No, no, don't apologize! I recieved the results of the... of the check the police made on Mr. Stone's body."

I nodded and he continued. "There were traces of an unidentifiable poison in Mr Stone's blood. Having coupled this information with the news of Mr. Stone's visits to tropical countries, I immediately had the idea of a foreign poison. I do not know what caused the mutilation of his eyes, but I do not think it was through the same poison that killed him. Mr.  
Daniel Lane's statement - that the sandals found in Stone's room were from Africa - showed that the poison must have come from Africa. That was why I wanted to find out about any Africans in the area and, later, about any foreign poisons. In my guise as a miner, I was able to find out that there have been a steady stream of African poisons coming into that shop you saw me in, Kit. I obtained the address and that is where we are going. Such poisons like that are rare and, as one of the poisons sold to the shop corresponds exactly with the one that killed Mr. Stone, there can be no doubt that these people must at least know something about the murder."

I nodded again and sat in silence for the remainder of the journey, only asking once, "Do we need the police? To do the actual arresting?"

"Lestrade and a few constables will be waiting for us," Watson said.

- - - -

The place in question was in a very squalid, closed-off part of Soho. The ruined houses, decorated with smashed windows and loose tiles, were far away from the hustle and bustle of the street business. When I stood still and listened carefully, I could faintly hear the cries of the people hawking their wares: "Fresh daffies, fresh, fresh, fresh, fresh from the country!", "Who'll buy any taters, any taters and carrots, taters and carrots? Mushrooms, nice white mushrooms!", "Come up and hear the tale of the shipwrecked sailor!", "And who wants a ribbon? Ribbons, ribbons, ribbons, who wants a ribbon? You there, a nice young lady like you wants a ribbon for her bonnet! Come buy my ribbons, pretty ribbons..."

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade and two policemen emerged from the shadows of a nearby shed. "Are you sure this is the place?"

"Quite sure, Lestrade. If you don't want to get your feet dirty, I suggest you wait in the cab."

The man's weaselly features twitched in annoyance and embarresment, but he remained silent and followed Holmes into the house. He noticed me only when we were standing in the dilapidated and empty front room. "Here, boy, what are you doing here? Run along! This is a police matter."

"I'm stayin'!" I declared, pugnaciously crossing my arms. Holmes, halfway up the rickety and creaky stairs, barely paused. "Kit has seen this case through from the beginning and is eager to see its end. The child is another eager amatuer in my wake."

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest only to find that the rest of us were streaming past him and up the stairs behind Holmes; he reluctantly shut it and followed suit. The upstairs had an odd smell and the dirt and dust were thicker here than below. The bare boards creaked beneath my feet and the walls echoed with the sound of the policemen's boots. There was a door halfway off its hinges at the end of the long passage. As Holmes approached it, it moved slightly, and a face peered out. It stared at us before vanishing back into the room with a frightened squeak. I could hear a voice saying something in an odd language and I pressed close behind Watson's jacket as he entered the room with Holmes and the police in the rear.

The strange smell was stronger inside the room. A large pot was simmering over the fireplace; numerous pots and clay jars lay on the floor and on the stained table in the centre of the room. An old man and an old woman were sitting at the table and, skulking underneath it, was a boy of about my own age who peered at us with the same frightened expression that I had first seen.

As I took a further step into the room, Mr. Holmes put a restraing hand on my shoulder and said, in a low and warning voice, "Be careful. I don't know whether or not they understand English."

"But..." I had thought it was only the dim light in the room, but, now, I saw that their skin _was_ really that dark. "They're black! Dark-skinned!"

"Even I noticed that," Lestrade muttered. The old woman had risen and demanded something in a language that I had never heard before; by the looks on the others' faces, they had not either. She was dressed in a piece of dark material that she tucked under her armpits; she also wore masses of ornaments in her ears. The man was in a long, once-white garment that was rather like a night dress; the boy was clad only in a filthy rag around his waist. The boy was pitifully thin; his ribs and the knobs of his spine stuck out like door handles. He had huge festering sores, dirty, weeping, and some as big as my hand, around his mouth and ankles. The whites of his eyes shone in the gloomy room and he looked from the policemen's uniforms to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, seeming to sense that they were not with Lestrade and his men. Finally, he looked at me. Upon meeting his eyes, I was struck by how sad and old they were. The eyes were too big for his thin face and seemed to say that their owner had travelled further than I could possibly imagine. I acknowledged that sad and calm gaze and felt that I had been mistaken. This boy was far older than I was.

Lestrade stepped forward and asked, "Are you the party responsible for the murder of Mr. James Stone?"

The old woman snapped something and the man kicked the boy out from under the table. He came out on his hands and knees, and, blinking, said in a soft and husky voice, "I speak a little English. I can tell you what you want to know, I, who am called _Dudu_, and _Kitu_ by these my grandparents, Majimbe and Mazengo."

"It will be used against you," Lestrade automatically said and, for a moment, I hated him. The boy smiled and the expression was so pathetic that I bit my lip. "It does not matter. My grandparents knew what would follow when they went to Bwana Stone's rooms, but they are too old to care what will happen to them and they do not care what happens to me." He shifted back on his haunches and began. "I am Daudi, from the village of Mbuli in the place you call Tanganyika. My father and mother are both dead, but I was raised by the _Wachristo_, the Christian missionaries who came to our village and taught us their ways. Before they came, we worshipped our ancestors and went to the _Wuganaga_ for _miti_ when we had sickness. We listened for the voices of our doctors and beat the drums and wore charms around our necks and feared the evil spirits that lived in all things bad and ill. But the _Wachristo_ said that charms were things of no value and, to go by the words of the _Muganga_, the witch doctor, was a way of small wisdom. My grandfather, Mazengo, had great anger at this, for was he not the _Muganga_ of our village? Did not he make much money by selling his_ miti _to the tribe? But Mbuli, our chief, listened to the words of Bwana Stone and he listened no longer to the words of Mazengo; instead, he drank the medicine of the _bwana_ and followed the ways of God." I could not tell whether he found this good or bad; his face remained impassive as he talked. Considering his treatment at his grandparents' hands, however, I could not imagine that he viewed them with immense affection.

"But Mazengo and Majimbe said, '_Wacho! _' and refused to listen to their chief. They wore charms around their necks and listened to the laughter of _mbisi _and made _miti _with the teeth of _chewi _and the fat of _simba_. They remained _mushenzishenzi _and left our village, hiding nearby in the jungle. But, when Bwana Stone left for the country of the Europeans, they waited and watched and planned with cunning. And when Mbuli died, they came back to the village and made much medicine for the people there. They said that their way of worshipping their ancestors and walking the paths of _Shaitani_ was the right way and we had been foolish to leave the old ways. The people of the village listened and another man, an Indian with much money, paid my grandfather to make medicine for him with great strength. My grandfather grew strong in the eyes of the people and he thought of the glory that had once been his, glory that the Bwana Stone had taken away. The Indian man saw this and told my grandfather that if he would make much medicine for him to sell to other tribes; then, he would give him money to travel to this land to find Bwana Stone and take revenge upon him."

The boy, Daudi, paused to take a breath and the old woman spat something at him. He replied wearily and she snarled, "_Nyamale twi, kitu_!"

"It took a long time," Daudi said, "but my grandparents came here. They took me with them, for, do I not have young legs and young eyes and ears? Would I not be _swanu swanu _in a big city like this? Also, I knew a little English and they knew none." He did not smile, but there was a glimmer of pride in his dark eyes at having mastered this skill that his grandparents did not have.

"So, we came and found Bwana Stone. We went to his rooms one night and my grandfather threw the sandals, so that the spirits which Bwana Stone had denied would decide his fate. Then my grandmother made _miti _and put it in the _bwana's _eyes so that he would know the sort of _miti _that the _Wuganga _used. She chewed up bark and herbs and spat it into his eyes so they grew red and sore and, finally, on the next day, they burst. We stayed with him so that my grandparents could see his death. He died from the _miti _that they made him drink and it made his death slow and painful, for his stomach jumped exceedingly. It is a strong _miti _and will kill an _askari _and give a child a great _ipu _inside. We stayed until Bwana Stone died; then, we left. My grandparents sold their _miti _to make money and waited to be found, for they knew they would be. Then we heard you come and they stayed here among their medicine." He swept a weak arm about to indicate the pots and jars. "Like the dog's tail."

I listened to Daudi's story with a kind of detatched horror and now looked at Mr. Holmes. His face showed only interest in the details of the case. Before my anger against him could fully raise its head, however, his eyes rested on Daudi,and an expression of pity and disgust flitted over his face. This sign of feeling reassured me. I listened cooly as Lestrade said, "Well, we have all that down. Jenkins, Baines..." He jerked his head at the two old Africans and the policemen moved to secure them.

"But, what about Daudi? He's sick," I said to no one in particular as the policemen led the Africans out of the room and down the stairs.

"Oh, the boy. Yes, he'll be taken to a doctor soon as possible. Come on, you." Lestrade crooked a finger at Daudi and the boy got up and followed Lestrade down the stairs. We heard them get into the cab by the soft, emphatic curses of the cabby and the rattle of the wheels; Watson said unecessarily, "They've taken our cab."

"Brilliant, Watson," Holmes absently remarked. His mind was still on the case. "Revenge and pride. So simple and, yet, they give rise to such consequences. Such hate and misery..."

"Human nature and human life." I remembered last night."'There are more things in heaven and earth...' Perhaps Shakespeare knew what he was talking about, after all."

"But, of course, he did!" Mr Holmes shook-off his thoughtful mood as completely as he had put it on. "Shakespeare had such an understanding of the human mind; it is quite extraordinary. You really must read his plays, Kit."

"Yes, maybe." I thought of Daudi, of his wasted, pathetic face, and of his ancient, knowing eyes. I repeated, "Yes, maybe one day I will."

- - -

_**FINIS**_

**Glossary:**

**Dudu: **Insect, or any type of parasite.

**Kitu: **Thing.

**Wachristo: **Christians.

**Muganga: **Witchdoctor. **Wuganga** is plural form.

**Miti: **Medicine.

**Bwana: **Master.

**Wacho!: **Rot, rubbish!

**Mbisi: **Hyena.

**Chewi: **Leopard.

**Simba: **Lion.

**Mushenzishenzi: **Very, very heathen.

**Shaitani: **The Devil.

**Nyamale twi!: **Shut up!

**Askari: **Soldier.

**Ipu: **Abcess.

_A/N: There! Finito! Hope you liked this story, and look out for the third one coming soon! Well, coming some time, anyway._

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